Shiny Pin
By birksy
The black umbrella twists in his hand, before, with one flick of the wrist he closes it like an oyster round it’s pearl. Stooping, he drops his change into the collection, hears it clatter on the others, and takes the pin for his lapel. Puffing, the hill takes him a little longer but his will gets stronger, he won’t stop to have a well earned rest. And now, in his window, he sits tea in hand, gas on full, while watching the young walk past he plays with the shiny pin.This poem (for me) was about a war veteran buying a red poppy, and then going home and thinking about past times. Not too sure it was about suicide - sorry, solange! Written June 13th, 1998 © on Sep 14 2001 10:06 PM PST, Simon Birks 0 • 10
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"The black umbrella twists..."